


Pulse

by AnneCumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Sherlock Holmes, Caring John, Depressed Sherlock, Gen, Protective Mycroft, Suicidal Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 23:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11241276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock had returned from his two years in hiding to discover John had moved out of Baker Street and out of London. After attempting to contact him, John had firmly stated he wanted nothing at all to do with Sherlock.And so Sherlock returned to his flat and attempted to return to his life. He tried to get used to being alone. He had lived alone for most of his life, doing it now should be no different. And yet… with each passing moment, the lack of John in his life was growing harder to bear.  After three months, his mood swings had gotten out of control and the longing for his friend grew to be more than he could take.





	1. Chapter 1: Floating

 Sherlock doubled over against the edge of the island, his eyes closed tightly against the wave of emptiness that shot through him. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his head swirling. His fingers dug into the countertop as he tried to anchor himself against the constant spinning of his thoughts. His breathing was too loud in his ears, accompanied by a loud buzz of silence. His hands trembled with the effort of holding himself up. Sherlock could barely feel his body, his mind so overwhelmed with the intensity of the loss of focus. With a shaky inhale, he released himself and let his body crumple to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face against them, rocking back and forth in an attempt to regain control. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I live at 221b Baker Street... My name is Sherlock Holmes and I love at 221b Baker Street..." Sherlock's dry lips mumbled the mantra as an attempt to bring his focus back to the present moment. He inhaled sharply and exhaled on a sob, tears rushing to his eyes. He dug his fingers into his leg angrily and tried to push back the weakness pushing to the surface. He could feel the core of his being crying out for someone, anyone to come find him, to be with him, to rescue him from this moment. But he knew that no one would come. There was no one left to come for him. He would have to face this by himself. 

Eventually, he managed to push himself up and stagger into the bathroom. He braced himself against the mirror and looked at his haggard reflection. His face was pale and sharper than usual. Dark circles under his eyes revealed his many sleepless nights. He looked down at his hands, grasping the white porcelain of the sink. The boniness in his fingers was a frightening image against the soft smooth surface of the glass he was holding onto. The deep scratch marks he had created on the back of his left hand in an attempt to ground himself caused another swell of despair to well up in his throat. He struggled to take a breath. Sherlock could feel his throat tighten and refuse to let an easy breath pass. He pushed his way to the shower and turned it on. He stripped quickly, letting his clothes lie on the ground where they fell and stepped in once the water had gotten warm. 

He closed his eyes and let the hot water run down the back of his head and over his shoulders. His hands hung limply at his sides as he stood there, letting the water pour over him, willing the water to rinse off his soul as well and cure the emptiness he felt inside his chest. He tilted his head back and felt the hot water run over his face, taking with it the tears releasing from his eyes. He held still and just let the water run over him, the only movement was a small tremor when he breathed. 

After the shower, Sherlock stepped onto the cold tile of the bathroom and shivered. He pulled a towel off of the rack nearby and wrapped it around his waist. He went through the door into his bedroom. Pulling on his favourite pajamas, Sherlock crawled into his bed and pulled the comforter up around his face. He could feel the water spreading into his pillow from his hair and sighed. He sat up and glanced around the room. Spotting a towel from a previous day, he got up and arranged the towel against his pillow. He resumed his previous position and closed his eyes. 

 

When he awoke, everything was quiet, inside the flat and out. He rubbed at his eyes and glanced at the alarm clock next to his bed. The red numbers spelled out 4:00 AM. His legs stretched against the covers, listless and frustrated at his inability to sleep. After watching the clock change to read 5:00AM, Sherlock got out of bed and padded quietly into the kitchen. His body felt raw and subdued from the outburst of feelings it had experienced earlier. He fetched a glass from the counter and filled it with water from the tap. Sipping it, he opened up one of the cabinets and took down a bottle of diphenhydramine. He popped the lid and released a tiny blue tablet onto the counter. He replaced the bottle in the cabinet and downed the pill, anxious to feel the drowsy affects. After he felt the pill travel down his throat, he hesitated. 

He took down the bottle again and popped the lid. Inside the bottle, the little blue pills looked up at him, promising sleep and rest. He poured a few more onto the counter and swallowed them. 

Feeling them go down his throat, he looked again into the bottle. The continual presence of the blue pills drew him in. He hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should replace the bottle on the shelf of the cabinet and go back to bed. With a swift movement, he downed the jar, releasing a cascade of the pills into his mouth. He drank some water to help push them down and repeated the action three times until the bottle lay empty on the counter. 

Sherlock's chest raised and lowered as he breathed deeply, somewhat in horror at what he had just done. The realization of his actions sunk in and the water glass slipped from his fingers and shattered onto the ground, sending bits of glass and water all over the kitchen floor. Sherlock walked back to his bedroom, his mind cloudy, unaware of the glass cutting into his bare feet. He collapsed on his bed and curled up in his comforter, burying his face against the cool fabric. He closed his eyes and tried to choke back a sob. Eventually, he resigned himself and let himself cry as he awaited the death he knew to be coming.

 


	2. Found

Three hours later, 8AM, footsteps tread the stairs and entered the flat. Mycroft stood in the doorway and glanced around the living room in search of his brother. His eyes scanned the evidence of Sherlock not having touched the room. He moved into the kitchen. As he stepped closer to the bathroom, glass crunched under his feet. Mycroft’s eyes took in the speckles of blood remaining in the glass, brown from over-oxygenation. His pace quickened and he opened the bathroom door, expecting to see his brother prone on the ground with a needle in his arm. However, simply bare tile and a pile of dirty laundry met his gaze. Heartbeat quickening, he swiftly moved into the bedroom and swung open the door. 

Sherlock lay on his bed, wrapped in his blankets. His face was grey and the sheets around him were damp with sweat. Dry cracked lips barely moved with delirious mumblings, inaudible in the dark room. His body was terrifyingly still, his chest almost unmoving with each breath.

 “Shit.” Mycroft was at his side in an instant, fingers rushing to find Sherlock’s pulse. With a smooth gesture, he peeled open Sherlock’s eyes to peer at his pupils. He fumbled to pull his phone out of his pocket. “I need an ambulance at 221b Baker Street, Westminster. My brother has overdosed on something, his pulse is very low.” Hanging up, he tossed the phone to the side and continued shifting his fingers on Sherlock’s clammy neck, struggling to find a strong and consistent signal of life. “Come on, Sherlock, work with me, damn it. What did you do?”

 

\------------------------------------------------------ 

 

 

 The florescent lights of the hospital hallways shone harshly against Mycroft’s drawn face as he sat in a chair outside of Sherlock’s hospital room. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced and the creases in his brow more defined as his eyes looked dutifully ahead of him, staring holes in the wall opposite because if he looked away, if his concentration wavered, the emotions fighting in his chest would get the better of him. His throat was tight with fear and the only movement he made was the fidgeting of the fingers of his left hand with the gold band on his right.

The door to Sherlock’s room opened and the lead doctor stepped out followed by several nurses carrying used medical supplies and trash, including Sherlock’s stomach contents. After closing the door behind him, the doctor took a few steps towards Mycroft, pulling off the latex blue gloves coating his hands. Mycroft stood to meet him, his dark eyes heavy with anticipation of bad news.

The doctor tossed the gloves into a nearby bin and looked at him. “He’s in critical condition, but I think he’ll pull through in time.”

Mycroft’s body visibly relaxed in relief. “Thank God. What did he take? As you can see from his file, he had a history…”

The doctor nodded. “Very ordinary Benadryl. He could have gotten it from any pharmaceutical store. Looks like he took an entire bottle.”

Mycroft blinked in surprise. “Benadryl? What did he think he was going to do, just fall asleep?”

The doctor shrugged. “You’d be surprised how many people think Benadryl leads to a peaceful death. Death is rarely ever peaceful.”

“Can I see him?”

 The doctor stepped out of the way. “Of course. He is still under close observation. I would suggest he remain here for at least another few days.”

Mycroft nodded and moved towards the door to Sherlock’s room. “Whatever you think is best, doctor.”

He opened the door and stepped into the hospital room. Sherlock’s thin frame looked small as he lay in the bed. The angles of his face were sharper than normal and reminded Mycroft of the fact that a skeleton made up his brother. He sank into a nearby chair and sighed softly, his eyes never leaving the pale figure lying in the starched white hospital bed, surrounded by wires and sensors and machinery. They sat in silence for a while, Mycroft content to see the heartbeat of his brother on the sensors and hear the quiet sound of his breathing.

“You scared me, brother mine… I didn’t know if I was fast enough this time… I thought I lost you.”

 

 


	3. Two Ships

 

 

John’s feet felt rooted to the worn tile floor in the hallway of the hospital. The square tiles spaced evenly around the worn brown shoes he had grabbed and slid on while hurrying out of the door. His phone had awoken him in the middle of the night with a long sequence of texts from a rattled Mycroft.

 

 

**Sherlock is in hospital. Come at once.**

**\- M**

**Overdose**

**\- M**

**I don’t know how long he’s been sick**

**\- M**

**His heart stopped four times in the ambulance**

**\- M**

**They revived him**

**\- M**

**Please come at once they think he might die**

**\- M**

**_On my way._ **

 

 

****

Standing outside Sherlock’s hotel room, John left hand clenched and unclenched in a fist at his side, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm, pressing against the tendons of his fingers running under the skin, feeling the nerves push back at him, telling him his actions caused pain. John welcomed the pain. He welcomed the distraction from the closed door in front of him. The door was all that separated him from Sherlock. He could see the edge of the bed through the door.

Although he knew he had to enter, he couldn’t bring himself to move any further. His feet had sunk through the hospital floor and absorbed into the concrete, forbidding movement.

 

The barrier was broken when a nurse moved past John and opened the door into Sherlock’s room, going in to check on him. The door was left open and John could feel it sucking at his soul, bidding him to enter, but his feet were unattached from his brain and refused to move.

 

Black leather shoes came to a stop next to him and John could feel the heavy presence of Mycroft standing next to him. When he turned to look at the taller man, he was taken aback at Mycroft’s disheveled look. Mycroft’s typically combed hair was mussed from fingers running through it in anxiety, he was missing his jacket, his tie was awry, his white pressed shirt was wrinkled, and there was a heavy exhaustion in his eyes which caught in John’s throat. “John.”

 

 

John shifted stiffly towards Mycroft, straightening his shoulders. “Well, I’m here.”

 

Mycroft’s face shifted almost imperceptibly. “That is not what I hoped to hear you say.”

 

“Well, what did you want to hear me say? That I’m here now and I’ll take care of him? That I’ll watch over him during his, no doubt, long recovery and tend to his every need? That I will throw away my entire life again for Sherlock? Is that what you wanted to hear me say?” John’s fists clenched and his shoulders tensed.

 

Mycroft stood quietly for a moment, looking at the smaller man in front of him. “No. No, that’s not what I wanted. I daresay I hoped for something that no longer exists.”

 

John tilted his head to the side, eyes snapping at Mycroft. “I daresay.”

 

 

The taller man gestured forwards with a hand. “And yet, you stand before me.”

 

 

John’s jaw clenched and he blinked. “Well. He was dying.”

 

“Would not thought of permanent ending change your point of view, Dr. Watson?”

 

 

John glanced towards the hospital door. “Not this time, Mycroft.”

 

 

“I see.”

 

 

The halls were silent as the two men regarded the closed hospital door. John could feel Sherlock’s presence on the other side, hurting, calling out for him. He closed his eyes, his fingernails pressing deeper into the soft flesh of his palms.

 

Mycroft’s eyes were deep with sorrow as he looked at John’s face. The smaller man’s face was drawn with exhaustion and emotional anguish. “I think it would be beneficial for my brother to not know of your visit then. Thank you for the effort, Dr. Watson. However, your services are no longer needed. Sherlock will live without you. I’m sure you can find the exit yourself.” With that, he turned and went into Sherlock’s hospital room, leaving the door open behind him.

 

 

John’s eyes flew open at the words and his mouth opened slightly as Mycroft dismissed him and left. He watched him walk away and stood alone again before the open doorway. John stood there for a moment longer before turning and walking away.  

 

 


End file.
